If his father only knew. . .
by LittleMaggie
Summary: Draco thinks about why he's so mean to Harry, Ron, and Hermione (the real reason), I wrote this for school last year and thought I'd post it up. R&R, don't flame I'm only 14. Can't be a perfect author just yet.


A/N: nope don't own Harry P or Draco or anyone. I wish I did.  
  
If his father only knew. . .  
  
Draco pressed his forehead to the cold glass window, his eyes scanning the snow outside for a sign of any life outside of the school. None seemed to show. His eyes turned back to the inside of the Slytherin common room, and he grimaced in disgust. Crabbe had beaned Goyle with his down pillow and now feathers dotted the entire red carpet, and so was Draco. He'd changed into something else, some newer clothes, but he was still picking feathers from his hair. He couldn't possibly go to dinner now.  
  
Hugging his knees to himself, he traced a line through the thick dirt on the windowsill with his finger. When was the last time anyone had truly cared to clean the room up? It was as dirty as it could ever get.  
  
He was tired of the filth. Just tired of it all.  
  
A loud laughter erupted from the dining hall, he could hear it all the way in the common room, that was how deafening the sound was. Did anyone notice that he hadn't gone?  
  
Had Potter noticed?  
  
No, of course not, he'd be too busy gazing at Cho or at Hermione or whomever he cared for now.  
  
Draco drew another vertical line in the dust. Then, he grew frustrated and grabbed the corner of the quilt beneath him to swipe off all the dust, sending a wild array of tiny specks of dust that fluttered and gleamed in the sun. The whirlwind of snow outside didn't seem to get any better and he finally shut the curtains with a frown.  
  
The empty room echoed to his breath, short and ragged, angry. Tears had formed in his eyes, and he hated the idea of it. What a softie he'd gotten to be, what an idiot. Wait until his father learned the way Draco really was, then he'd get a real beating.  
  
Not that the other ones weren't real. All he ever did was try to act tough, to live up to his father's expectations, which doubled every year just as Draco felt more and more broken inside.  
  
The presumably distinguished but cruel Mr. Malfoy, his father, but only in public (his enemy in his heart) had tried to make him just a mold, a little plastic form in which he'd tried to shape Draco in, like worthless clay. So what if Draco was trying to be so hard? So what if Draco despised and beat up on poor Harry, just like his father ordered him to, for reasons unknown?  
  
Draco suspected his father to be a puppet and Voldemort pulling the strings. Draco wanted nothing to do with Voldemort. He shook at the idea. He never had anything against Harry. In fact, he liked Harry, for which he hated himself most.  
  
If his father found out. . .  
  
The words were so familiar, so worn out in Draco's mind. Every step he took, every word he said, was measured with those words. Would his father agree if he helped Harry pick up his quill? No. So Draco would kick the quill even farther from Harry's hand.  
  
Draco put his head down on his knees, his legs pulled up so close to him he could barely breathe, his arms wrapped around them, seeking a comfort his parents never gave him.  
  
He hated his life, his very existence.  
  
Yet, he realized maybe one day he'd be able to be strong enough to look his father in the eye and say: " No. I'm not doing this anymore. I'm not going to be a puppet like you."  
  
Draco glanced wearily at the stack of paper and the quill on his pillow. He had been struggling for a good twenty minutes now to decide if he should write a letter to Harry. An apology, perhaps, an explanation. Draco constantly worried about how Harry might have secretly despised him, even loathed him. He wanted to do something about that, to settle the scores and to arouse an apology from his side.  
  
Yet, he couldn't bring himself to. Five words barred him from a world where he could have friends, where he wouldn't walk on strings, always controlled.  
  
If his father found out. . .  
  
So what?  
  
What if he did?  
  
The thoughts surprised Draco himself. His eyes seemed to clear, the tears fading into the crystal blue of his irises. Would Mr. Malfoy strangle him? Would he beat him senseless, until he was a cowering puppy in the corner of the room? If so, at least he'd be put out of his misery.  
  
Draco grabbed the paper and quill, the little writing instrument twirling in his fingers, droplets of ink spreading across the weathered paper surface like tears. He wanted to apologize so badly for everything. He wished he wasn't the child of the Malfoy family, he wished he could have been someone else's kid, to grow up happy and carefree.  
  
His mind wondered how to phrase his apology, how to put all his thoughts into words. He began by writing the word: 'Dear'. He stopped there, words failing him, then added: 'Harry, Ron, Hermione, and whomever else this might concern'.  
  
It sounded so superficial!  
  
He thought hard. Should he do this? Perhaps Harry and his friends wouldn't betray him. Perhaps they could be friends secretly, if he explained to them why he was the way he was. But how to put his thoughts into words, when all he could draw were blanks?  
  
Was this the feeling authors spoke of, when they had an emotion built in them, a vision of pure sorrow and feeling, yet they couldn't write it into words in their stories?  
  
Draco didn't want Harry to hate him any longer. He didn't want to call Hermione Mudblood anymore, just because his father wanted Draco to be friends with only people of pure, top-notch sort of blood. This led him to end up with Crabbe and Goyle, whom were more like children that he had to baby-sit then anything else. And Draco didn't want to tease Ron anymore about being poor because his father, once again, wanted him to only be friends with people that were wealthier, and therefore according to him better.  
  
'Why do I fear him so much!' Draco thought. ' Is it the beatings that I'm afraid of? If so, then I should be used to it by now.'  
  
Confirmation of his thoughts could be seen all over his body, where his father's abuse managed to show through on his skin. A severe cut lined his shoulder blade when his father had pushed him into the jagged edge of a cabinet. He still winced at the memory.  
  
So much blood. . .  
  
It was Draco's worst fear, blood.  
  
It would seem ironic or funny to some, but not to him. In fact, he felt faint at the sight of it. Perhaps whenever he saw it he'd try to act cool and then quickly disappear off to his room where he'd struggle to keep from vomiting.  
  
Was this all what his father had done to him?  
  
His pen worked across the paper, his thoughts forming into words. He'd always felt this had to be done, and now in his fifth year, after years of struggle, he knew he'd have to say something, anything!  
  
The words that were penned up inside of him burst through his hand, his fingers forming the curves and lines of every single letter, telling a story that seemed so familiar yet distant to him. He was unused to telling anyone this but the journal he kept, which his father had found not long ago. His father had never been so furious, saying that if someone had ever found the journal that he'd get his whole family in trouble.  
  
A large purple bruise stood out on Draco's shoulder from that incident.  
  
He had tried fighting back, of course, but to no success.  
  
He whispered the words to himself as he wrote them, now growing used to putting these things on paper. Now it flowed so naturally that he surprised himself. Beautiful and tragic letters, each forming a story that he hoped that Harry and his friends would understand and keep secret.  
  
He just wanted them to understand.  
  
Perhaps they wouldn't ever be able to publicly be friends, still, but at least there'd be some understanding between them so Draco wouldn't feel as if he were so unjustly cold and cruel all the time.  
  
Suddenly, he stopped, his quill quivering midair over the paper, the ink ending abruptly in the middle of a word, a new fear coming to fill him. What if Harry ridiculed him? What if they took it as a joke and displayed it to everyone?  
  
Surely in the end his father would learn, and then. . .  
  
He shuddered to think of the consequences.  
  
Draco took the paper and crumpled it, tossing it into the wastebasket. It was filled with at least a dozen such papers, each a hopeful beginning. No, he couldn't do it. In fact, he doubted if he ever could, not until his father wasn't a threat to him anymore.  
  
Outside, the snow thinned, and the bell rang, marking the end of dinner. Draco wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, angry that he had let himself melt away like that. He walked to the trashcan and then mashed all the papers down far into its depths so that nobody would grow suspicious.  
  
By the time Crabbe and Goyle had stumbled into the room, Draco was sitting on the bed, his old self, smiling coldly. He could feel his father's imposing words threateningly roar in his head as he said:  
  
" Say, why don't we go attack Potter and his little buddies with some snowballs?"  
  
Of course, his two bumbling friends nodded, stupidly agreeing to whatever Draco might throw to them. He himself felt as if he was strangling inside as he walked down the Slytherin steps, into the frighteningly fierce snowstorm outside, with only the hope that nobody would know.  
  
After all. . .  
  
If his father only knew. . .  
  
Author's Note:  
  
I had this on paper previously, since I handed this in last year in eighth grade (we did the Harry Potter book in school), when the teacher told us to evaluate a character and to write a fiction expanding on why they might be the way they are now (like why Hagrid might like magical creatures so much or why Draco was so mean, etc). I just thought I could post this, since Draco's always been my favorite character and a lot of people on this site seem to agree from what I see. (My friend read this and thought it had some slash connotations [D/H], well it isn't.). I probably won't add to this story since my parents are going to take my Internet off tomorrow since they're both out of jobs and can't afford it. I'm gonna check for reviews, though! I just decided to post this before it was too late. DO NOT FLAME, I beg you!!! I'm only 14 and a gentle soul. 


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